The Moments
by InTheImprovementOfHerMind
Summary: Originally just one short story "The Moment", I will now be posting a series of one-shots here, all dedicated to the Doctor and Rose Tyler. (One-shot; rated K for occasional cursing).
1. The Moment

**For those of you who don't know, this is a DoctorXRose story-so if you're not a Rose fan, that's fine, but please don't leave reviews talking about how much you hate her. You can do that on fanfics that aren't pro-Rose. Constructive criticism is always welcome, of course.**

**Disclaimer: this is my own (slightly sentimental) one-shot take on the death of the Doctor. The only character I own is the unnamed companion-I do not own Doctor Who or any of its contents!**

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She burst through the doors of the TARDIS, too worked up to notice the peeling paint and the broken glass. It was dark and a cold stillness had enveloped the inside, and for once, the 'it's bigger on the inside' failed to register with her. She didn't care about the science and the magic, she only cared about one thing—there he was. She peered through the gloom, ignoring the way dust was beginning to settle everywhere, even though yesterday it had been filled with life. He was propped up against the wall, breathing deeply. His eyes were closed, his face was streaked with dirt, and his coat was lying beside him. Bless that ratty, old coat. She loved it.

"Doctor!" she said, rushing over to him. The dust stirred and rose around in thick clouds. He opened his eyes and the TARDIS gave a great wheezing groan, the lights blinking back on briefly. She dropped beside him, seizing his wrist.

"Are you alright? I saw—the Daleks… they didn't… they didn't…"

He squinted up at her, a faint recognition gleaming in his eyes. "Hey," he said. "There you are… I thought you stayed behind."

She forced a smile, swallowing against the lump in her throat. "Nah, I jumped ship. I thought, what the hell? Aliens, six suns, time wars—that's not so bad."

He managed a weak grin. "That's what they all say."

She swept her gaze over his body. "I could have sworn they got you. Are you hurt?"

He blinked and looked down at his side, confused. "Don't really know, you know?" he answered slowly. "I felt it…" he grimaced and pointed to the smoking stain on his shirt, just above his left rib.

She reached out and touched it gently. "It's cold," she said, surprised.

"Ouch," he said weakly. She pulled her hand away.

He smiled up at her, and again, the TARDIS coughed, spluttering back into life for a brief moment. She looked around, wondering why the lights were out.

"Doctor, the TARDIS," she said, "what's wrong with it?"

He sighed and gazed fondly at his surroundings. "Needs redecorating, doesn't it?"

She grinned. "Yeah, well, maybe just a bit. I don't suppose you've got a feather duster?"

He tried to shrugged and flinched instead. "Don't think so."

"Fancy that, out of everything this old trap _does_ have, you still haven't stocked her with cleaning supplies."

"Too busy to bother with that," he said. He coughed and closed his eyes again.

She leaned over him anxiously. "What's going on?" she asked. "Are you regenerating? The TARDIS—"

"She's failing, the faithful old girl," he interrupted, sorrow shadowing his gaze. He struggled to lift a hand and pat the wall behind him. "So tired."

She stared at him, shocked. "Failing?" she repeated. "You mean, she's dying? Is that it?"

He sighed again. "That's right… never thought you'd see this rusty old bucket give up, did you?"

She attempted a laugh. "Which rusty old bucket? You or the TARDIS?"

"I'm not rusty," he protested, smiling at her.

She hesitated. "Doctor, if the TARDIS… if it's dying… are you alright? Why aren't you regenerating?"

He looked at her for a long moment, considering. "Remember that time we played cards on that one planet?"

She fought the tightness in her throat. "I remember. Zak said you were cheating and we both got kicked out even though I had won a lot of money."

He grinned. "Good times, eh? I never did pay you back."

"No, you didn't," she agreed. "I'm charging interest."

He chuckled. "That sounds fair."

"What about the card game?" she pressed him.

"I only cheated because I ran out of good cards," he said, frowning. "I wasn't ready to end it, you know? So I found another way out."

"Where is this going?" she asked lightly, squeezing his wrist.

"Cheating at cards is kind of like regenerating," he said. "Sorry, this is a terrible analogy."

"I won't make fun of you, just this once," she promised, winking at him.

"That's a relief," he joked. "But really… I regenerate to cheat death, you know? It's another way out—buy a little more time, hold off the end, just a little while longer. But Zak found out, didn't he? Probably because I was a terrible bluffer and I was grinning like an idiot. Then that was the end of that. No more dodging."

"What do you mean?" she whispered.

"I ran out of time, you know?" he said softly. "Sooner or later, we all run out of time."

"Doctor, what do you mean?" she repeated, staring at him.

"I can't regenerate," he told her gently. "I've run out of cards. There's no dodging this time."

She blinked against the tears forming in her eyes and struggled to swallow. "You're dying?" she whispered.

"I'm dying," he said.

"You can't be," she protested, her throat dry.

"Oh, but I can," he said sadly. "Me and the TARDIS—we always knew Time would catch up with us."

She closed her eyes, attempting to steady her breathing, aware that the tears she had been fighting had escaped and were trailing down her cheeks. She opened her eyes. He was watching her, brows drawn together, a half-frown on his lips—so like her Doctor, but that familiar, comforting expression was a lie—he was slipping away.

"Who's going to watch over the stars now?" she asked softly.

He smiled. "That's easy," he said. "You are. You and everyone like you. My Children of Time, the Protectors of the Stars."

"Doctor—"

"You can't stop it," he said. "No one can." He coughed, and leaned his head back, gesturing to the coat by his side. "I guess you can finally burn this old thing."

She smiled through her tears. "Never," she promised. "Do you know—I love that rag."

He grinned. "I thought you might." He closed his eyes, swallowing heavily. "I can't see… it's going black… is that normal?"

"Don't know," she said. "I've never really, well…"

"Me neither."

"Doctor," she asked, "you… are you sure you—"

"I'm sure," he said, opening his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"Sorry? For what?"

He looked away. "I know what's it like to say 'goodbye.' I'm sorry you're in my place now."

She shook her head, gripping both his hands in hers. "Don't be," she said firmly. "Every minute—it was worth it."

He chuckled again, and winced, his laugh ending in a gasp.

"Does it hurt?" She asked anxiously. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay," he assured her, breathing deeply. "I've had worse… sort of."

"I just can't believe…" she said quietly. "This is the end."

"No," he said, grasping her hand tightly. "It's a new chapter. New characters. I've been around for far too many sequels as it is.

"Doctor…"

"You don't give up, you understand? You keep going, whatever it takes. There have been others like you, there still are. People who knew me. People who've saved the world, saved me. You're one of them."

"No, Doctor," she said gently, shaking her head. "_You_ save the world. I will never forget you, what you've done, everything you've… none of us will. Because we know you, Doctor. We know that all of those times, in the darkest of hours, when the stars went out and every planet out there failed—we know that when somehow, that impossible light broke through—we know that was you. When we heard that lovely old wheeze, we knew we would be safe."

"Thank you," he said.

"No, Doctor—thank _you_." She paused. "Does it still hurt very bad?"

"Nah, I'm okay… just…" he hesitated. "Maybe a little… scared?"

Her heart broke. "_You_?"

"Yeah… it's weird."

"Don't be scared, Doctor," she said. "Think of everything you've seen and done. The lives you've saved and the people you've met."

"It's hard to remember now," he said sadly. "So many friends, so many goodbyes. I almost don't want to remember."

"Don't forget!" she insisted. "That's giving up, Doctor. Don't forget them, they love you. Think of the brightest moment in your life. The greatest adventure. The happiest years. The time you could think to yourself, 'I'm happy. I could die happy. This is what I want to remember forever.'"

"A Moment?" he repeated.

"Yes, Doctor, a moment," she agreed, choking back more tears. She lifted his hand and kissed it.

"Have I had a Moment like that?" he asked faintly, looking around absentmindedly.

"I don't know, Doctor, but think. Try. Focus on it—please," she added. "It will give you peace."

He frowned, staring off into space. "A Moment… I think… I remember… once, long ago… I knew someone."

"Good, good!—focus. Remember them. Who were they?"

"A… a friend. We were friends."

She smiled. "You were happy?"

"Happy? I… yeah… I was happy."

"I'm glad," she whispered. "Do you remember their name?"

"Yes, I… you're right, it helps. I'm not scared anymore. She wouldn't want me to be scared." His eyes seemed to stare right through her, imagining some far-off memory, and a small smile tilted his lips.

"Who is she?" she asked, curious.

"My Moment," he said vaguely.

"Yes, her—your moment," she repeated. "Who was she?"

"I wonder…" he hesitated. "I wonder if she's waiting for me? … do you think people… do you think so?"

She smiled encouragingly, wiping away at her tears. "Yes, Doctor. Of course. I'm sure she is."

"That's good," he said. "I want to see her."

"Doctor… who is she? Do you remember? Your friend—what was her name?"

He looked at her, and the endless depths of emotion in his eyes startled her. They were deeper and darker than she had ever seen them, and she felt as though his entire life was reflected in them. "Her name's Rose," he said quietly.

"Did she… did you lose her?" she asked. She felt guilty for prying into such a powerful memory, but she had to know.

He looked down. "Yes."

"I'm so sorry," she said, her voice catching. She wiped at her eyes. "Did you… were you…?"

He didn't seem to hear her. "I hope she's there," he said. "I will be so happy to see her. I have to…"

"Have to what?" she asked.

He managed a smile. "There's something I never got to tell her."

She returned the smile. "What was it?"

He released her hands and pushed himself away from the wall. "Rose Tyler," he said, staring at the heart of the TARDIS. "I love you."

His eyes glazed over and he slumped back against the wall. She blinked and took a steadying breath, feeling his wrist. No pulse. He was dead. She closed her eyes and released his hand. It fell limply to his side. She stood woodenly, and leaned down to close his eyes gently, before gathering up his coat and heading for the door. She opened it, took a deep breath, and looked back one last time at the image that would fill her heart for the rest of her life—the last moments of the Doctor, the death of the last Timelord, the end of the TARDIS. Whenever she was asked about it, in years to come, she could best describe it in one, simple sentence; a sentence she felt defined the Doctor's life, his soul, his hearts… The Doctor, in the TARDIS, with Rose Tyler—she lifted her head and closed the door firmly behind her—the way it should be.


	2. I Lost Her

**One-shot: The Doctor and an unnamed companion debate what is truly worth remembering-and if it's ever worth the pain. Again, I am writing for DoctorXRose fans, so please read and review accordingly. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own "Doctor Who" or any of its contents. I do own the unnamed companion... but then again, she's unnamed, so it's not like that does any good. Neither do I own the ending phrase (which I won't give away!). I've seen it used several times across the internet, but I'm unsure who originally said it; all credit goes to them for it anyway! It's a beautiful quote.**

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The view was incredible. Views were always incredible when I traveled with him—but this one, spectacularly so. As the two Suns set before us, I had to resist the urge to hum 'The Force Theme' from Star Wars. It was the type of thing the Doctor would do, and I knew he'd make fun of me if I attempted it.

"I forgot my sunglasses," I said after a moment.

He chuckled. "You forget everything."

"Remembrance is overrated. Unless it's sunglasses. You should never forget those, especially when driving."

"Your cynicism is going to be the end of you one day," he warned.

I laughed shortly. "Cynicism is what keeps me alive, mister."

He looked at me as though he didn't quite agree. "I think remembering is important." He paused for a moment, and then said, in a tone so soft I wondered if I was intended to hear it, "It's hard, but you should never want to forget."

We'd obviously switched from sunglasses to people. He did this, sometimes. He'd get lost in some far-off memory from a hundred years ago, eaten up by guilt for some forgotten friend of old. He let guilt get to him far too much.

I shrugged light-heartedly, the wistfulness in his voice lost on me compared to the brilliance of our view. "Who wants to be remembered anyway?" I asked. "No matter how the memory starts now, sooner or later someone in years to come will twist it into something different."

"You're a very depressing person, you know that?" he asked, giving me a side-glance.

I laughed—_really_ laughed this time. I think because he took me by surprise. "I'm realistic," I said, "and not at all concerned with the opinions of others. If I don't care what they think of me, then why should I care how they remember me?"

The Doctor bent his head in agreement. "Okay, I see," he acquiesced. "It's better to not be remembered at all than always be remembered poorly."

"Whatever you like," I said kindly, seeing that he still didn't get it. In a way, it made me love him all the more—he really, truly cared about what people might think of him. He wanted to be loved and respected and maybe even adored—like the doting pride a parent or sibling might have on their son or brother.

"You like doing good," I observed, after a moment. He looked at me, surprised.

"You could say that," he agreed.

"No, I know it," I insisted. "You're one of those people who are warmed from head to toe when they're praised for doing the right thing. Your eyes glow when someone says thank you and don't think I haven't noticed your silly grin whenever I say, 'you're brilliant!'" You're kind of like a puppy, I wanted to add—but didn't. It would probably permanently ruin his all-too-adorable ego.

"You think I'm brilliant?" he asked, grinning.

"Oh, go on with you," I said, looking away and shaking my head.

He laughed. "You're very observant," he said, goading me on. "Go on then—what else have you noticed? I think I should call _you_ 'Doctor'?"

"Amusing," I replied, smirking. "Has anyone ever told you that sometimes you have the cheesiest sense of humor?"

"All the time," he answered solemnly. "Has anyone ever told you that you are scarily perceptive?"

"No, actually, they usually tell me to get lost," I replied wryly.

He chuckled. "I can understand that. Well then, Doctor, you've had months to examine me. What's your prognosis? I'm an insufferable do-gooder?"

"No, no, you're not insufferable. You're a goody-two-shoes, in a way, but it doesn't arise out of any arrogant need to be recognized—not really."

"Oh?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "Then why?"

I faced him squarely. "I think you want to be loved," I said, looking up at him.

He faltered and blinked, obviously caught of guard. He hesitated, as if not sure how to reply.

"It's okay," I told him. "You don't have to defend yourself. I understand—well, not really. I don't care if people love me or hate me. But I understand why you do."

"Do you?" he murmured, so quietly that I almost missed it.

I frowned. "Doctor?"

He looked away. "Do you ever wonder why I keep going and going and _going_? I never stop. There's always a new world to save, new planets to rescue."

"You're a fighter," I said, somewhat confused. "You always have been, as long as I've known you. Why would you stop?"

"Sometimes I want to," he confessed. "Sometimes I want to end everything—every last thing—and just sit down and close my eyes. And sometimes it's hard to stop myself. If I'm not careful, I could easily destroy just as many as I save."

"Well, that's why I'm here," I said in a tone of forced-brightness, a bit concerned by his confession. "I keep you on the rocker."

"I've done it before," he said softly.

I blinked. "Done what?"

"Let go," he said, in a tone of awful remorse. "Let my anger and frustration and loss explode out of me in a kind of rage that was completely unstoppable. I destroyed a species that day. Wiped it out."

I bit my lip. "Bad species, I hope," I said softly.

"Does it matter?" he asked harshly. "They're _gone_."

"We all make mistakes," I tried again.

He laughed bitterly. "Really? Have any of yours ever destroyed a whole race?"

"Well, no," I said slowly, and then brightened a bit—"I destroyed a whole ant colony once. That was a good days work!"

He smiled a little, but it didn't reach the haunted look in his eyes.

"Hey," I said gently, touching his clenched hand. "You're not perfect. You're good, but you're not perfect. And I don't expect you to be. No one does. We're just glad to have known you. I'm just glad to have been a part of what you do."

"What's that?"

"You save people, you do-gooder, you," I told him, punching his arm playfully. "And we love you for it."

"Yeah?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. I paused. "So… I guess that's what keeps you fighting, then? Even when you want to let go?"

He looked up, confused. "What?"

"The people who love you," I said, feeling a bit self-conscious and horribly silly at the wishy-washy way I was speaking. "They keep you fighting."

"Oh," he said. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you're right."

I hesitated. "Why… what made you let go—that time…?"

He frowned. "I've never really talked about it with anyone. I was lost. I was so tired of fighting."

"But why?" I pressed. "That doesn't sound like the Doctor I know."

He huffed out a laugh. "Probably because that wasn't the Doctor you know. I was different then—fuller, more human, in a way." He stopped and grinned. "As human as an alien could be, I guess."

"'Fuller'?" I repeated, cocking my head to the side.

He let out a quiet breath. "It's been ages—so many years—but I can still remember what it was like, in that lifetime. I embraced everything. I loved everything. I was one of those always-annoyingly-excited types."

I groaned. "I hate those."

"Yeah, you'd have despised me," he agreed, chuckling. "But I was happy. I was really happy."

"You said you were lost," I protested.

He sighed. "Everything comes to an end, in time. I lost that life a long, long time ago."

"What happened?" I asked, terribly curious now to hear about this other Doctor—I had this kind of horrible image of a tall, skinny guy in a pinstripes and Chuck Taylors who had a high-pitched chuckle and the tendency to quote movies and T.V shows even more so than he did now… the image made me shudder.

"I guess it's like you said," he answered at last. "I was too human—I put too much hope in the ideals of love and happiness. I thought they could fix everything and outlast everything. I had someone beside me that somehow convinced me I could do anything, and it would never end."

"And?" I prompted.

"I was wrong," he said sadly. "I lost everything. I always knew I would, deep down. I always do."

"And that's what made you go hay-wire?" I asked. "Emptiness?"

"Complete emptiness," he agreed. "For the first time in a long time, I just wanted to die."

"That's horrible," I said, and I meant it. I rarely felt sorry for people. Most of the time I viewed their problems as they're own faults—but in that moment, my whole, cynical heart ached for the sorrow I saw in the Doctor's eyes. It was a sorrow that spanned a thousand different lives and an eternity of time. _Loss_. The word echoed around and around in my mind. What had I ever lost? What did I know of the pain of letting go? It was so obvious to me—the blatant cynic who could see everything from the outsider's window—that he had loved and lost. That's why he put so much stock into being adored. That's why he ached for appreciation and pride. He only wanted to fill that too-empty void. He was _lonely_. I realized that for the first time. I thought of the way he brightened when I called him '"brilliant." I remembered all the times his lips tilted upwards at any sort of praise—praise that might have been reminiscent of someone he had once known, someone who had praised him and loved him and thought he was just fantastic. A mother, maybe? A best friend? I raised my eyebrows—a girl?

"I guess love isn't as overrated as I first thought," I said softly, trying to imagine what sort of girl the Doctor might fall for. Opinionated and loud and funny?—I hid a grin, already imagining the sorts of arguments that would occur between the Doctor and someone like _that_—that was more best friend material. Sweet and caring and kind?—I could see the wide-eyed innocent falling for him, but I somehow couldn't see him returning more than friendship.

"No, it isn't," he replied. "See, we all have, in the end, our one great love story; the only one, the 'love of our life'… as they say… even… even I had my own. A long time ago, though. Very, very long time ago. They don't always end happily, you know. Mine didn't. And it's nothing to be ashamed of. Even when it's forgotten by everyone else, you don't have to feel ashamed…"

I paused, considering a new option—"was it your family, Doctor? Was it your family dying?"

He looked up, startled, as if he had forgotten that I was there. "My family? … oh, yes, of course. Yes, that's what I meant. They were my tragic story, yes…"

I narrowed my eyes at him. Yeah okay. Not buying it.

"Although…"

I looked at him expectantly. His eyes darkened into something so profound that I couldn't quite decide what it was.

"There was one person… long ago… she was my friend. We were friends. Together. She… well, no matter now." He looked away, suddenly realizing that I was openly staring at him.

This friend… was she the one he had lost? The one who had pushed him to go too far? "What happened to her, Doctor?" I asked, feeling slightly guilty for pressuring him, but not guilty enough to leave it alone.

"I lost her," he said tonelessly, dropping his gaze and turning away.

"I'm so sorry," I said. And I was. I might not understand love and loss all that well, but I was smart enough to see absolute heartbreak when it was written all over someone's face like graffiti.

"Me too," he said simply. _Me too_. The words echoed around in the stillness of the evening. He was sorry. He was heartbroken.

"Doctor," I asked, "your friend, the girl you… what was her name?"

He smiled then—a real smile. The realest of real smiles. It broke over his face in a lopsided grin that made him look lifetimes younger. The worry lines around his eyes fell away and he looked young and carefree and unwaveringly optimistic—the face of a young adventurer who wore pinstripes and Chuck Taylors and laughed too much and liked nothing better than holding hands with his friend as they faced whatever came their way—together…forever…it was the most human and hopeful expression I had ever seen on his face, and when he finally spoke, I understood why, because it was a sentence that I, the heartless cynic, felt could make even the unhappiest, bitterest, most pessimistic of people give a smile and think that perhaps there is something wonderful left in this world.

"Rose," he said. "Rose Tyler. My fantastic Rose."


End file.
